What's a Favour Between Friends?
by el bastardo
Summary: Slash. A brief interlude between Sam and Dean, wherein an old friend helps Sam to realize the depth of his feelings for his elder brother. Warnings for content and the author's terrible sense of humor. Not as dramatic as the summary implies, honest.


**Author's Note:** Hello! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy! This is my first and, probably, last Supernatural fanfiction, and is meant to be more humorous than anything else. Please forgive my twisted sense of funny.

**Disclaimer:** Wow, I SO don't own anything Supernatural, except for the box sets of Season One and Season Two, as well as one of the novels. All nerdiness aside, though, I'm just, uh, playing in the Supernatural Sandbox.

**Warnings:** Non-graphic slash (I'm not sure which I'm warning about… that it's slash or that it's not graphic. Heh.), incest, cussing, and questionable consent. Abuse of cell phones and door knobs.

**What's a Favour Between Friends?**

"Get on your knees and suck me off."

Dean stopped with his hand on the doorknob. He had a pistol in the back of his pants and a knife at his belt, but he didn't pull them. Why would he, when it was his brother who had spoken?

"What the fuck did you just say?" he asked quietly, voice echoing back from the chipping paint of the door, thankfully not as tremulous as he felt on the inside. He couldn't quite believe what he had heard.

Whether it was surprise or simple unwillingness to believe, Dean was unable to avoid the large figure that slammed into him from behind. A giant hand pinned his shoulder, a muscular chest pressed against his back, and spine-tinglingly hard hips nudged against his ass. Dean didn't even have a chance to complain before his cheek stung from the sudden impact with the door.

He reached for his knife and long, blunt fingers wrapped around his wrist and dragged his hand away. When had Sam gotten so fucking strong…?

"I said," Sam murmured, breath hot and moist against Dean's ear. "Get on your knees and suck me off."

Dean tried to laugh, though it was difficult with the doorknob digging under his ribs. "You possessed again, Sammy? I thought that charm--"

A broad palm closed around Dean's jaw and shoved his head up, cutting him off. Teeth nipped at the line of his throat. Uneasy bravado turned quickly to simple unease.

Dean struggled a bit, but surprise had removed any leverage he might have had against his giant of a younger brother.

The nervous racing of his heart and shaking in his limbs certainly didn't help, either.

"You think I'm possessed?" Sam husked. His hair tickled Dean's cheek, his lips brushed over the fine lines of the elder Winchester's face. "I just finally noticed what's been here all along." Dean only saw a flash of an amused eye, an expression of hunger. "You're gonna do what I fucking tell you, because that's what you want. Now get on your fucking knees, and suck me off."

Sam abruptly released him, and Dean put his back to the door. Before he had truly decided, his knees were already crumpling, and he slid down.

/.\./.\

Sam returned to himself sometime after midnight, snapping back to reality like he'd never left. Dean slept, exhausted, sated, and violated in every manner possible, breathing deeply under the weight of Sam's arm. Sam started violently and slid out from beside his brother. He stared, aghast, down at his own naked body. He was lethargic, loose-limbed, still thrumming from the after-shocks of sex.

What had he done?

He wished he had been possessed. He wished he didn't remember the darkness in Dean's eyes, looking up at Sam. He wished he didn't remember feeling Dean tightening around him, throat giving voice to animal cries that Sam had never thought to hear. Because, if he didn't remember them, he could have said that he didn't enjoy them.

Even now, his exhausted flesh stirred at the memories.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he muttered hoarsely. What had happened? They were going out, they were about to leave, and Sam's phone had rung, and he had answered it, recognized the number as… as…

Sam searched frantically for his phone. He found it in his jeans pocket, hanging haphazardly over the room's bar fridge. He fumbled it open and checked the call history.

"Andy," he rasped, finding Andrew Gallagher's number. "You son of a bitch." He glanced furtively toward Dean's bed and his brother's still-slumbering figure. From what Sam remembered, Dean wouldn't wake soon, and he'd be damn lucky if he could walk properly.

Sam punched the re-dial. It rang. After twenty rings, the phone service told him the obvious; no one was about to pick up. So Sam tried again. And again. And again. Finally, he snapped the phone shut and tossed it away.

A moment later, he dived for it as it trilled out the tones indicating a text message.

When he read the short message, he nearly threw the machine away again. Through massive self-control, he set it on the bedside table. Then, trying very hard to not think about what he was doing, Sam returned to the bed and his brother's side. He slid his arm into the perfect crook between rib and hip and snugged Dean's slighter body closer to his own.

Then he watched the glowing face of his phone and its message until the light went out.

/.\./.\

_he asked me 2 do it _

– _A._


End file.
